


you are flying

by idontwant2talkaboutit



Series: A Slice of Limon [13]
Category: Dimension 20 (Web Series)
Genre: M/M, crop top rights, hot limon rights execept i take things too far so shes going 2 have CHAPTERS
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-29
Updated: 2020-11-07
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:49:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27255220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/idontwant2talkaboutit/pseuds/idontwant2talkaboutit
Summary: There is security in being first to kick yourself down the stairs, and, just for a second in the fall you are flying. Despite the violent collisions, the bruises that never heal and the stone that punishes with every step, for a moment you are flying. And that’s not bad for a cough drop.
Relationships: Limon/Swifty
Series: A Slice of Limon [13]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1858369
Comments: 10
Kudos: 9





	1. Chapter 1

The nature of a cough drop is to be ignored. They exist to stick to the bottom of purses, to disappoint, to linger, to decay. It is a life condemned, a purgatory, waiting to be needed, yearning for purpose. The world doesn’t need a cough drop. 

Limon’s comfort lies in that, obviously, he is soon to die. The war has passed, but he is sure that any day now he will slip beneath a carriage which will shatter his body, leaving shards of him scattered amongst the feet of the people of Candia where he belongs. And good riddance he thinks. Limon only hopes this will be punishment enough for his little hubris. 

In quiet moments that fall between failing his duties and kicking himself down the stairs, Limon thinks back to how, once, Cumulous had offered death so sweetly that for a second the world had stopped turning. But Limon had not proved himself worthy to die by such a great hand. While at first there was a promise - that he was thinking of him, that there would be a later where Cumulous sought him out, that he would lay his staff so tenderly upon him and take Limon’s life to fuel his own glory - that promise became only a further reminder that even at the gates of death he was unworthy, destined to be forgotten. Over the long days and nights that blurred together as Limon struggled to get free of the quicksand he had found himself stuck in throughout the majority of the war, damning him to live while many great men fell, Cumulous’ unfulfilled punishment only stood as a reminder how people lied and tricked him, tormented him and how he deserved all of it. 

Before Cumulous, Limon had never had a punishment withheld from him. Even when everyone tells him he was safe, tells him they would not kick him down the stairs, he knows they are tricking him. Because he knows he deserves to be punished. Anyways, there is safety in the certainty of pain. There is security in being first to kick yourself down the stairs, and, just for a second in the fall you are flying. Despite the violent collisions, the bruises that never heal and the stone that punishes with every step, for a moment you are flying. And that’s not bad for a cough drop.

-

Limon wakes up early. Sunlight streams through the window, which has warped and magnified the light onto his body, burning his chest and melting his skin, which is fair. The stone in his chamber glistens with damp, and he takes a slow deep breath, inhaling the mould and decay that surrounds him. It’s been a year since the end of the war and today will be a blur of festivities and celebrations. He hopes that maybe he could be trampled to death by a group of children but wouldn’t want to ruin anyone's day any more than usual.

His breakfast, last night's stew, is infested with maggots, which he deserves. He feels too guilty to disrupt them so instead, he slips them everything he has saved for lunch, which feels right. They deserve it more than him. For a moment his thoughts stray to Cumulous, to the promise of his presence at the feast tonight, the promise that maybe he would remember what later means. But only for a second. These are sinful thoughts and he must punish himself at the first opportunity possible. Limon reaches under his bed and his hands fall upon his finest crop top. He pulls it out and traces his hands along the seams, ignoring his teardrops darkening the fabric. This crop top, a parting gift from Liam before he left for his honeymoon, is the most kindness anyone has ever allowed him. Purple fabric stitched with fine gold thread, he was inconsolable for a week after Liam gave it to him. It remained folded under his bed for months, he is not worth such nice things, and he is sure he would be punished for his conceit if he wore it, sure that he would have his ears boxed in by everyone in Calorum, one by one. Even the idea he was important enough for anyone in Calorum to box his ears shows how arrogant the gift had made him. But today, for the first time, he pulls the crop top over his head. Liam is returning from the Dairy Isles and he must show gratitude. 

Limon runs his hand through his dark matted hair that sticks to his fingers and catches sight of his reflection in the puddle at the corner of his room. He is greeted by a mournful glare, two eyes protruding from sickly yellow skin and a body broken and misshapen from years of falling. He only hopes that in his wretched appearance he can make others feel better about themselves. That someone can benefit from his damned life.

And now he is late. The castle is waking up, and for his laziness, his extreme selfishness he cannot visit the woods this morning. He sighs, loudly, and seconds later there is the loud thump of a large object being thrown against his door, which he deserves. He waits a few minutes, taking the crop top on and off, his mind as rough as the Dairy Sea as he debates if he is worthy of wearing it. Eventually, he leaves it on and tentatively slips into the grand castle corridors. He stumbles along, flinching from noises as he approaches a staircase. He hears footsteps and whips back to see a smiling face, a gummy bear, a new squire.  
‘Morning Limon’, the young squire announces, powerful voice and immense stature mocking Limon, cowering beneath him. ‘How are you on this fine day!’. He sees Limon's eyes darting between him and the stairwell and a booming laugh fills the halls. ‘Don’t worry Limon! I won’t push you! No one wants to do that!’  
‘Nice try’, Limon thinks and kicks himself down the stairs.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> everyday i make mistakes. this one is for u joe biden

The day was going badly before Limon felt the blade sticking into the back of his neck. The square is crowded and Limon hates it. Sometimes there is safety in crowds, in anonymity, but today the crowds offer no respite from his sins. Instead, as if under a microscope Limon feels hundreds of eyes pour over every aspect of him, every detail as he sulks around the edge of the crowd. People punish him with their glares, and he deserves this. He’s already done truly terrible things today. Unforgivable, he thinks as he stares down at the soup staining into his crop top, the sweet stench of peas following him like a desperate ghost. He’d tried so hard. Walked into the square feeling lighter, almost powerful. He had long stopped thinking about the maggots and had stopped at a small stall, almost made eye contact, almost made conversation with the vendor as he ladled his soup. The crop top really did fit him well, glinting in the light, hugging his figure. It was everything. He was so grateful for Liam, for everyone who had supported him, protected him, helped him - and his thoughts were cut off by two kids, one running into each leg, bodying him as he watched, almost in slow motion as the soup flips once, twice held to the bowl as if by magic, rushing down to earth, to desecrate his finest possession, his only taste of kindness, his golden crop top. This is the worst thing he has ever done.

So, when the knife presses into the back of his neck it feels like relief. After a day of walking around in a stained crop top, the soupy fabric clinging to his chest, It feels like coming into warmth on a winter's day, like just catching the last bus with seconds to spare, like freedom. Limon exhales, his body relaxes, he leans back slightly, hoping to meet it where it's at. But instead of death, he is greeted by a voice so piercing, so unlike anything he has heard before that for a moment his soul leaves and his body is to grasp at reality. In his ear, hot breath on his skin, ‘Give me your fucking crop top! I will fucking KILL YOU give me the fucking crop top.’ Limon, unable to move, to think, to breathe stays frozen. ‘I will stab my knife inside of you! My knife will be in you! The fucking crop top!’ Limon feels himself grounding, his soul, his life flooding back into his body from the sharp tip of the knife. He shifts. Makes eye contact with his assailant. Feels a shudder deep in his bones.

Limon recognises him, of course, Swifty is known and feared up and down the land of Candia and more recently, since his recent settling, feared up and down the streets of Dulcington. He’d recently shed his childish appearance for something with a little more… flair, which today is a pair of deep purple velvet flares and a fur coat that engulfs his narrow frame. His widespread recognition had limited the effectiveness of his old ways, pretending to be a child and ambushing his victims, and he’s now ‘branching out’. Nonetheless, his breath is still hot on Limon’s neck, old habits die hard. In the seconds that it takes this to flit across his mind, Swifty is unravelling fast. The screeching has become screaming, and the screaming has reached a pitch far above what cough drop ears could ever reach. But still, Swifty yells. ‘I will fucking end your life! I’ll put you in the fucking ground fuckface!’.

Limon sighs, pathetic and mournful as he gazes at the soup seeping further into the fabric.   
‘Is this my punishment sir?’  
‘Your fucking what!’  
‘Oh sir I’ve done awful things I’m afraid,’ Limon’s voice warbles slightly. ‘I’m afraid I’ve ruined everything and I’m sure Prince Liam will punish me to death I just know it. I just know it.’ Swifty pauses for a moment, confused, ‘I don’t give a fuck what you’ve done! I’m a fucked up little guy! I’m wearing sixteen thongs! I will rip out your fucking balls!. Give me the fucking crop top’   
‘Is that my punishment? Because sir I’m afraid that this crop top is above me, there’s a great hill just above here if you want to punish me but-’  
‘i’m not fucking punishing you I’m taking your shit! what the fuck is wrong with you!’  
‘But this crop top is ruined! I’m afraid I’ve ruined it! Wouldn't you prefer to throw my bags in the river? Take my sword, my armour, that has far more value.’  
Swifty shrieked loudly, perhaps a laugh? ‘I’m fucking rich! Nice three bedroom in Dulcington! I don’t need your shit! I’ve got gold beyond your fucking dreams. I can get as many divorces as I want.’ His eyes narrow, ‘ but right now I want that fucking crop top’  
Limon begins to cry, just slightly, sweet tears rolling down his medicinal face. His life is one thing but the crop top, the endless kindness of Liam Wilhelmina, that was quite another.  
‘I will fucking KILL YOU’   
‘Guards approach, wearily, slowly with a look that knows what is to come. But at this last threat, last offer, Limon smiles to himself. The guards get closer. They reach towards Swifty. They reach for their weapons. ‘No, let him do it’ Limon says, on an exhale almost softly. Almost sweetly. This is perfect.

Swifty sighs, releases him and lights a cigarette, deep drag, longer exhale. He stares, defeated for a moment. ‘Well, it's not going to be fucking good for me if you’re into it.’ He inhales again. Catches his eye. ‘Man, you’re a bit fucked up!’ he screeches. And for a second, Limon feels seen. For a second he’s protected the crop top. His pride. For just a second he sees Swifty’s arms swing back and a large object, a carriage wheel? Swing directly into him. Striking him square in the head. And everything fades. Everything goes black. And Limon’s last thoughts are of peace.

-

This peace lasts the next fifteen minutes, till Limon’s eyes pry open, not to his endless rotting demise but to reeking mud, surrounded by feet, once again crawling through shit, though dirt, becoming one with waste once more. As is life. The mud is warm against his bare chest and. Fuck. The crop top. Limon shoots up, dread seeping through his blood. His life was meaningless, suffering, sin. But he had a duty to protect the one thing bigger than him, bigger than his life. And maybe he had to see Swifty again for .. justice? He wasn’t quite sure yet but the man has been seared across his brain. His threats, his pitch, his … three-bedroom in Dulcington. Limon has to go to Swifty’s three-bedroom in Dulcington. He has to find Swifty. For the crop top. For Prince Liam Wilhelmina. For.. he dismisses the rest out of his head and for the first time in his damned life he walks with resolution. Head held high, or higher, back straight (or straighter), he is going to get his fucking crop top back.

**Author's Note:**

> feel like pure shit wish i was as hot as limon
> 
> this is the first and last fic i will ever write . like comment subscribe


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